There's butter
on her lip
from the toast

and bread crumbs
on her cheek
where fingers
have been there

and she moans
endlessly
about my hair
or my beard

Abela
I tell her
there's a blob
of butter
on your lip
at the top
hanging there
for dear life

and those books
that you read
she moans on
those deep books
with long names
of writers
why read them?

I like them
I reply

as she talks
the butter
on her lip
rides like some
horse breaker

Abela
how's the toast?

she gazes
at the toast
in her hand

it's quite good
she replies

the butter
is still there
on her lip
hanging like
some kid's fresh
smooth bogey

I see it
look away
nothing more
I can say.